


Perfect Couples (Are Breaking Up)

by circusvet



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grantaire is an idiot, M/M, One Shot, combeferre and courfeyrac are childhood sweethearts, grantaire romanticizes their relationship in a Bad way, thank god for Enjolras, they have a lot of well dressed friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 04:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18336329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circusvet/pseuds/circusvet
Summary: Grantaire's neighbors are, without a doubt, the most Perfect Couple he has ever seen. It would be gross, if they weren't so Perfect. because they are. They're Perfect.





	Perfect Couples (Are Breaking Up)

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely based on the song Perfect Couples by Belle and Sebastian. I highly recommend listening to it before, during, and after reading.

You are, once again, sitting in your mostly dark apartment at nightfall with nothing more than a bowl of room temperature lentil soup and the latest season of Game of Thrones queued up. This is completely normal. You haven’t gone out in weeks, your entire apartment (and you) are drenched in the smell of paint and last you knew, the only people who knew you were still alive and kicking it were your best friend and the guy from the plant store next door to the Franprix. You hear your neighbors across the hall unlocking their door and giggling and, like usual, thinking about them makes your heart twist.  
Your name is Grantaire, you’re excruciatingly jealous of your perfect neighbors and you are completely, utterly alone. 

In Grantaire’s defense, his neighbors were the couple everyone always dreamed about being. They were, in every single way, perfect. He knew very little about who they actually were as people and they could very well be serial murderers or tax evaders or Republicans or pineapple on pizza eaters or something equally horrifying, but on the outside, they were completely perfect.  
He’d even been inside their house, and that was perfect too. They held monthly gatherings in their home, which, despite having the same layout and floor plan as Grantaire’s, looked significantly nicer and was far more hospitable. They’d obviously done some serious remodelling or renovating or whatever, because their marble countertops and brushed ebony hardwood and open floor plan were incredibly different from Grantaire’s cramped and messy apartment. The few times he’d been there, the place had been impeccably decorated and nearly spotless, even the shiny lid of the baby grand piano without a speck of dust.  
This was all floating around in Grantaire’s mind because he’d been invited to yet another one of their nerve-wracking parties, and while he’s pretty sure they invite the whole floor, he’s never seen the old lady in 609 or the douchebag in 607 there, so he’s always just assumed he’s the only one who actually accepts the offers. A glance at the microwave, numbers glowing creepily in the darkness of the dining room, tells him that if he wants to look even slightly presentable for the coolest and most put together people he knows, it’s probably in his best interest to get off his ass and take a goddamn shower. This proves more difficult than imagined because Grantaire is wont to move and by the time he gets around to showering and changing and combing his hair, it’s well past the time they gave him. 

And thus, puts him here. Standing outside their door with the most expensive bottle of cheap wine he had in his entire apartment, wearing an actual button up and the cool black boots Eponine bought him, trying to quell his rising anxiety. This was no normal dinner party. This was a dinner party catered and held in the incredibly classy and elegant home of Mathieu Combeferre and Alexandre Courfeyrac. And while Grantaire had daydreamed about having a romance as perfect and devoted as theirs was, he’d never really seen them up close and personal.  
It wasn’t uncommon for Grantaire to see them working out on yoga mats in the park across the street from the building on his way to work in the mornings, when the weather was good, and when the weather wasn’t good, they’d spend the mornings in the gym or the glass panelled pool deck, retaining an illusion of being outdoors. Grantaire also knew that the bright yellow bike with the basket chained up outside was Courfeyrac’s and that he rode it to work and more often than not, to the organic market in Batignolles for groceries because of course he was the type to bike across the arrondissement in a suit just for a new basket of organic figs and a log of goat cheese.  
Not to mention that, on the evenings when Grantaire decided it was definitely a night to be spent at Corinth, wallowing in his own drunken misery, he’d see Combeferre and Courfeyrac after dark on the patio of one of the classy bistros in the area, holding hands and sipping wine and staring at each other like the entirety of Paris, City of Love, had been built from the ground up just for them. Which Grantaire would not argue with. 

The door opened and Grantaire was hit, rather suddenly, with an armful of five foot six lawyer. Courfeyrac, who was always excited to see anyone at all who might talk to him, seemed ecstatic to see his reclusive artist neighbor outside his disaster of an apartment and wearing real clothes without paint stains or beer spots.  
“Come in! Oh, Grantaire, we’re so glad you could make it. Most of our friends are already here, we’d love to introduce you!” Courfeyrac gushed. Grantaire blinked in surprise at Courfeyrac’s use of plural pronouns, despite Combeferre being nowhere at all in sight. The living room, impeccably decorated with pure white couches and a glass coffee table and several little decorative steel boxes Grantaire saw no use for, was decked out in a mix of the fashionable friends and stunning snacks at the maison de Courfeyrac et Combeferre.  
Overall, the view into the living room looked like a spread from a Curators Home advertisement. Every single person reclining languidly against the white couches and dark walls either seemed to perfectly match to decor and aesthetic of the room or, in one case, provide a focal point of color in the tract of monochrome.  
“Darlings, this is Grantaire, our neighbor across the hall. We’re so glad he’s here, please don’t frighten him off right away. Grantaire, this is Enjolras, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly and Bahorel.” Courfeyrac skipped off, not bothering to clarify which name belonged to which fashionably dressed adult. Grantaire, for once, didn’t feel underdressed, per se, just significantly less put together.  
One by one, the other attendees of the get together approached Grantaire, who, if the strangers were any less laid back, would definitely be having a panic attack, and introduced themselves. Bahorel, he learned, was the lawyer and boxer in the maroon waistcoat which somehow fit perfectly with the Polynesian tattoos swirling up his arms and his boyfriend, Feuilly, did not say what he did and was decked out in some sort of red carpet Newsies look, thick copper curls shoved haphazardly under a cap and brown suspenders over his shoulders. Joly and Bossuet, who gossiped in Korean to one another, were a neurologist and lawyer respectively and both looked like walking Burberry adverts. Bossuet explained that his family was from Togo, but he’d learned Korean in order to communicate with his boyfriend’s traditionalist parents. Neither of them offered any explanation for Joly’s cane, and Grantaire did not ask.  
This flurry of introductions left Grantaire shaken and more confused about all these people than he had been before he knew all this cryptic information. However, it did explain one thing. The bright red military jacket and impressive mop of unstyled blonde curls in a little ponytail tied with a ribbon that had not moved from the couch must be Enjolras.  
Enjolras made no attempt to greet or introduce himself to Grantaire, which Grantaire was totally fine with. If the front of him was anywhere near as intimidating as the back of him, Grantaire was pretty sure he’d either end up arguing this guy to death or falling irrevocably in love with him. Not that Grantaire had anything against the idea of falling in love with men who resembled the Sun (at least from behind), but that would really ruin his life plans. Grantaire had, as long as he’d lived alone in the little apartment across the hall, planned on never moving out and channeling Marcel Proust; dying alone after having not left his house in a full three years, depressed and lonely. 

While Combeferre and Courfeyrac were abandoning their guests in favor of kissing in the kitchen, Grantaire sat stiff backed in an armchair, only half engaging with ruckus of the others. Enjolras was curled around the arm of couch, eloquently discussing the homeless epidemic in Paris with Feuilly. Enjolras seemed to avidly support the proposed shelter in the 16th arrondissement, but Feuilly seemed more skeptical about the likelihood of the residents of the richest arrondissement in Paris supporting the building. Grantaire watched Enjolras get redder and redder in the face until Feuilly laid a gentle hand on his knee.  
“Enj, not everyone sees the world the way you do. Many of these people don’t give a damn about the homeless.” He muttered. Enjolras seemed to deflate like a balloon, mumbling an apology to Feuilly under his breath. Feuilly nodded in return and noticed Grantaire watching.  
“I grew up in the foster system and I spent a fair amount of time during and after that living on the street. Enjolras likes to fight for the rights of those who might not be able to fight themselves, but sometimes he doesn’t fully understand the situation. That’s why he has us, though.” Feuilly explained, fully for Grantaire’s sake. Enjolras looked like he was trying to absorb himself into a black hole and fully depart the universe, pressing steadily back into the couch. He glanced over, making eye contact with Grantaire for the first time that night and Grantaire felt his whole world stop. The pair of blue eyes stuck inside the skull of the man on the couch were, potentially, the most enchantingly frightening thing Grantaire had ever seen. If he stared too long, he feared turning to stone.  
Enjolras looked away as Courfeyrac and Combeferre stumbled back in, giggling at each other and holding fancifully arranged platters of hors d'oeuvres. Courfeyrac surveyed the room, shaking his head fondly and ruffling Enjolras’ hair.  
“Are you being a terror again, dearest?” He asked pleasantly. Enjolras muttered something that made Bahorel laugh a loud, full-bellied laugh, leaning his head back. Enjolras shot him a glare, and Combeferre smiled softly, almost apologetically, to Grantaire.  
“I’m sorry, R. He’s not great with new people and he’s quite a lot to handle all the rest of the time. The rest of them are far kinder, though.” He said as if Enjolras couldn’t hear them at all. Grantaire nodded back, trying his best to flash something of a convincing smile in return.  
“So, Courf and Ferre tell us you’re an artist. What sort of artist?” Joly asked, folding his hands in his lap and grinning at Grantaire. Grantaire opened his mouth, beginning his prepared speech on oil paint based mixed media.  
“Oh!” Courfeyrac interrupted loudly. “Grantaire paints the most wonderful pieces. He incorporates all kinds of clever things like...” He trailed off, cheeks pink. “I’m sorry! Go ahead, R. I got a little ahead of myself.”  
Grantaire stared at Courfeyrac in surprise. Words like “wonderful” and “clever” hadn’t been used to describe his art since he doodled comics on napkins with friends in _terminale_. Not to mention that the last thing in the world he ever imagined was one half of the coolest pair of people he knows to describe his art as such. He hadn’t even known that either one of them had ever seen any of his art, let alone enough of it to make positive judgements about it. Grantaire cleared his throat, making an active effort to try to look at least one person in the eyes.  
“Um, I normally paint with oil paints, but I add in other stuff after? Like, uh, flowers? And sticks. And weirdly shaped pieces of metal. Hundreds and thousands. Feathers. Pretty much anything I can find. So I guess it’s mixed media, but oil paint based.” He shrugged. “They’re okay, I guess.”  
Courfeyrac shook his head emphatically, curls bouncing and very nearly smacking Combeferre in the face.  
“Oh, R, they’re amazing! Isn’t there something else you should mention about them, though?” He asked, eyes twinkling with mirth. Grantaire stared blankly at him. Did Courfeyrac want him to talk about how he sold that one painting to a retirement home and a woman accidentally poured soup on it? Combeferre placed a gentle hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder.  
“I think he’s talking about your gallery opening.” Grantaire’s hands started to shake, fully unaware that Courfeyrac and Combeferre knew that the gallery he worked at, after nearly a year of begging, had finally agreed to display some of his work, complete with an opening reception. As far as Grantaire was concerned, the only people who would show up were critics and whatever weirdos Eponine decided to invite. Maybe the kid from the plant store, since there was a painting of him in the set.  
“How did you guys know about that?” He asked, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible.  
“I bike past your gallery sometimes on my way home from work! I looked up the events online when I saw your name on the window, and I made sure Combeferre knew your opening was in our schedule. We’re so excited to come support you.” Courfeyrac said excitedly. Grantaire, who felt as excited about the situation as one of those baby animals with a can stuck over its head, felt himself go pale. There was absolutely no way that these people could come to his gallery opening, despite how well it seemed to suit them.  
“I don’t... You want to... Oh.” Grantaire mumbled, every word he’d ever known leaving his brain for the aether.  
“I’d like to go. When is it?” Enjolras interjected. Every head in the room turned to look at him as if instead of mentioning a possible enjoyment for the work of little-known artists, Enjolras had proclaimed his desire to devote the rest of his life to blogging about his exploits with various sex toys. Grantaire, whose eyes were practically falling out of his head in surprise, said nothing. Courfeyrac, equally shocked, waved a hand in Enjolras’ general direction.  
“We’ll send you the details.”

The night continued with very little rascality after the art show opening fiasco, though both Enjolras and Grantaire stayed uncharacteristically silent, not knowing how talkative the other could be. Joly and Bossuet departed first with hugs all around. They were followed shortly by Feuilly and Bahorel, who had been making uncomfortably sexual eyes at each other for the better part of an hour. Upon being left alone with Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras, Grantaire cited a half-baked excuse pertaining to a non-existent cat and an existent and partially completed painting and slipped out the door, leaving quick enough to avoid Courfeyrac’s impending goodbye hug. The second he was safely back in his own apartment, he called Eponine. The subsequent conversation was less of a conversation and more cackling (from Eponine’s end) and one long, high pitched scream (from Grantaire’s end.)

Six days and fourteen hours later, Grantaire runs into Bahorel outside a coffee shop with an English name with an _aigu_ in the wrong place. There’s an English poster in the window advertising fair trade blends and it seems most of the patrons are tourists. Bahorel is holding a Starbucks cup and Grantaire crashes directly into him. The cup does not spill, but expletives do. After checking each other over, Bahorel graces Grantaire with a finger-cracking handshake and an offer to get lunch together and Grantaire is not the sort of man who turns down a lunch offer from a behemoth in a suit with embroidered lapels.  
They end up at a restaurant on the Seine with plush beige chairs, a view of the Eiffel Tower across the river, and no menus. Bahorel chats happily about his own work and Feuilly’s charity work and Feuilly’s various non-profit organizations and Feuilly’s hair and Feuilly. Grantaire has begun sense a recurring theme amongst these couples, and the thought makes him snicker. Bahorel raises an eyebrow.  
“Something funny?” He asks. Grantaire shakes his head.  
“No. Well, sort of. You’re all so devoted to one another. Erm. Well, the couples. In your friend group, I mean.” He says. Bahorel laughs, loud and strong and reverberant enough that several other patrons glance over at them.  
“I’m touched you’d compare Feuilly and I to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Though it doesn’t get much more romantic than them.” He says. Grantaire, overcome with desire to fully digest the entire backstory of the couple who couldn’t _possibly_ be any more romantic, leans forward. Bahorel, observant to Grantaire’s mounting interest, releases another stentorian chortle and relaxes.  
“It isn’t my story to tell, especially since they tell it so much better. Ask them about it sometime.” Bahorel offers around a mouthful of tartare. Grantaire resolves to do so and nods in response. Bahorel’s eyes narrow in on the slash of blue paint across Grantaire’s fingers and he beams.  
“Oh, Feuilly and I are excited for your gallery opening. I wanted to look up your work, but Feuilly wouldn’t let me. He wants to be surprised.” Grantaire, typically, feels raw beef slide down the wrong pipe, a direct result of his surprise, and coughs until he’s sure this is God’s punishment for the countless sins of his life. Bahorel contributes a firm slap on the shoulder, which makes matter worse. Eventually, the coughing fades and Grantaire is left to stew in embarrassment.  
“I was unaware you were planning on coming.” He gasps out, shoulders heaving. Bahorel, typically, laughs.  
“Of course we are! Courfeyrac sent the information to our group chat, so I’m sure you can expect quite the audience.” At this information, Grantaire fights the overwhelming urge to pick up a large rock and fling himself into the Seine.  
“Speaking of audience, Feuilly and I are hosting a get together tomorrow. Would you like to join us?” Bahorel, because he’s a kind and decent human, asks. Grantaire because he’s useless and masochistic, agrees. Bahorel beams.

This time around, Enjolras is wearing a red button up tucked into black jeans and thick military boots and Grantaire is completely floored as to how one man can look so much like a Polykleitos work and a dental ad at the same time. Because this time around, Enjolras is laughing.  
This laughter does not last long. Someone brings up labor laws and fuel taxes and Grantaire, unable to resist, plays devil’s advocate. What he does not account for, is having Enjolras’ attention focused on him. Enjolras, it seems, does not appreciate Grantaire’s opinion and Grantaire, once again unable to resist, continues the debate simply for the heart wrenching adoration that has begun to bloom with every modulated note of Enjolras’ rant. As Enjolras becomes more red and more worked up, Grantaire becomes closer to tipping over the side of his metaphorical boat of safety in the previously untreaded waters of unadulterated attraction. This fall was inevitable and everyone else in Bahorel’s stunningly designed dining room seems enchanted at being privy to the torturous sideshow of watching Grantaire fall hopelessly in love with Enjolras, who seems to be falling hopelessly in hate.  
And yet, stranger things have happened still. Courfeyrac stands on the balcony, staring out over the twinkling expanse of Paris, third cigarette of the night dangling from his lip. Grantaire has not seen him speak to Combeferre all night. When Combeferre does finally wander out onto the balcony, his whispered words with Courfeyrac flow between them, solemn and smileless. It seems everyone is glancing at them sporadically, wondering the same thing; is this how they fight?  
When they leave, they are holding hands and Courfeyrac does not hug anyone goodbye.

Four days later, Enjolras is standing outside Grantaire’s apartment. Grantaire expects that he’s forgotten which apartment Combeferre and Courfeyrac live in because what other possible reason could Enjolras have for standing outside Grantaire’s apartment while wearing cuffed white jeans. Grantaire cracks open the door, and Enjolras looks thoroughly unsurprised to see a green eye peeking through the gap.  
“Hello, Grantaire. Can I come in?” Enjolras’ tone is almost agreeable, but his stance is anything but. His face is blank and his arms are tightly crossed against his chest, like he’s waiting for Grantaire to lunge out of his apartment and punch him in the ribs. Grantaire, upon realizing that he hadn’t imagined Enjolras asking to come in, swings the door open. Belatedly, he remembers that he sits in his apartment all day fermenting himself in the smell of paint and turpentine and the lone candle the plant store guy gave him. This, for normal people, is not a pleasant smell. Grantaire watches Enjolras’ perfect little nose wrinkle and realizes, despite his future headache from all of this realizing of things, that if Enjolras asked, Grantaire would upend an entire Diptyque store into his apartment, lest Enjolras have to breath in turpentine-flavored air. Grantaire stares at Enjolras for a moment, and Enjolras motions to the couch.  
“Can we sit down?” Grantaire nods shakily, pausing to open a window before settling against the arm of the couch and tucking his feet under his thighs. Enjolras sits down slowly, all prim and proper. This, to Grantaire, is starting to feel like the point where Enjolras confesses his most ardent love despite being an emotionless disaster and insulting Grantaire’s status and family. But, of course, this probably makes Courfeyrac and Combeferre Jane and Bingley and that’s just too much for Grantaire to think about. Thinking about Matthew Macfadyen in the rain doesn’t suit him much better, so Grantaire settles on nervously watching the straight line of Enjolras’ spine and its tiny, miniscule movements of breath. Enjolras is staring at a half finished Impressionist painting of the pond at Jardin du Luxembourg that Grantaire plans on never finishing.  
“I wanted to make sure you were comfortable with me attending your gallery opening. Courfeyrac pointed out that I wasn’t exactly kind to you that first night and that maybe it was for the best that I ensure your comfort before inviting myself and potentially intruding on something as important as a gallery opening.” Enjolras is staring at his custom red and blue Converse and white denim cuffs and Grantaire’s heart is going to burst. Truly, life would be so much easier if Enjolras could be an argumentative asshole _all_ the time instead of just _most_ of the time. Grantaire nods, panic-induced lockjaw reigning over his ability to speak.  
“Can I paint you?” He chokes out, ready to go sob on the shoulder of Plant Kid, who really needs to start wearing a name tag. Enjolras looks surprised, blue eyes wide, as if his own shoes had asked the question and not the idiot human on the couch with him.  
“Yes. Do you need me to stay or take a picture or something?” Enjolras’ leg has started to quiver, Grantaire’s first indication that he could potentially not be an actual alien. Grantaire shakes his head.  
“No, I know... I’ll remember what you look like.” He says, selectively ignoring the flash of red that blooms across Enjolras’ cheeks. He stands abruptly and turns to stare at Grantaire, blue eyes scrutinizing right through the very fabric of Grantaire’s body to stare directly into the quivering flame of Grantaire’s soul, burning brighter with desire for audacity the longer Enjolras’ eyes fan the ember. Enjolras smiles carefully and nods quickly.  
“Do me justice.”  
And as Enjolras closes the door, Grantaire hopes, for the sake of the blaze inside him, that he does.

The finished product is borderline ethereal. It rests against the wall in Grantaire’s living room covered in a fresh white sheet, standing almost seven feet tall. Empty jars of gold leaf and tubes of carmine and crimson and imperial red are strewn around the floor, the closest Grantaire will ever come to a red carpet. The art show is tomorrow and a truck will be outside in an hour to take the paintings to the gallery to be set up and Grantaire is packing tiny spotlights into a box and he keeps glancing at the massive painting as if the focus will melt out onto the floor, swathed in the Egyptian cotton draped across the canvas, flesh and bone formed from burgundy and ultramarine and laguna yellow and gold flake. Grantaire leans his head back against the cabinet behind him, throat bobbing as he thinks about Enjolras, Enjolras’ passion, his drive, Enjolras’ laugh, the gleam in his eyes, Enjolras spread out across Grantaire’s sheets, one hand clutching the headboard like a lifeline, mouth open, other hand wrapped around his—  
The truck is outside when Grantaire escapes his thoughts, face burning pink. He helps the men carry all the paintings to the truck, making sure they know to take special care of the largest one. He’s already discussed placement with the gallery owner, and he isn’t supposed to come inspect the pieces and confirm their placement until 9am the following morning. It feels like an eternity. Grantaire visits Eponine at work, too nervous to drink. He passes the Franprix and the flower shop, waving at Jehan, whose name he has finally asked, as they close up the shop. Jehan had also agreed to attend the opening, if only to see the portrait Grantaire had painted of them, real pressed flowers woven between paint strokes into their hair.  
When he gets back home, clutching a bottle of wine and a jar of olives, he hears Combeferre and Courfeyrac yelling through their door. He stops dead, unable to distinguish any specific words but all too familiar with the sound of anger. All of a sudden, the world seems to spin faster. The yelling continues for a moment before Grantaire hears stomping and a door slam; one of them has fled to the balcony. If he went out to the pool, he’d be able to see who, but this moment feel too private, too harsh, too detrimental for Grantaire to want to do anything but skulk into his own apartment and read Kierkegaard.  
In the back of his mind, a nagging voice reminds him that all couples fight. Maybe Combeferre forgot to take out the trash or Courfeyrac bought the wrong brand of dish soap or maybe they’d made plans to try that new restaurant on Avenue de Villiers but one had forgotten to make a reservation. Once he’s safely inside his own apartment, Grantaire impulsively Googles divorce rates in France. He lays in bed, chest heaving upon reading that France has the third highest divorce rate in the world, after Luxembourg and Spain. He thinks about this until he falls asleep, almost three hours later, wondering what the hell happens in Luxembourg.

Grantaire wakes up long after both Combeferre and Courfeyrac have left for work and with approximately thirty-seven minutes to get to the gallery to make sure that everything is perfect. He rolls out of bed, dragging his tangled sheets into the bathroom in his rush to throw himself into the shower. By the time he desperately stumbles into the gallery, his paintings are hanging and lit and there’s a table with a dark red cloth and three buckets Grantaire imagines will hold champagne and Grantaire, for the first time in a long time, finds himself thinking that maybe, maybe, this won’t be half bad.

That thought stays until approximately thirteen minutes before the reception is due to start. He’s already checked every room about six dozen times, straightened every dish of olives and cheese and has stared at the painting of Enjolras for about fifty six minutes. Eponine, a gift from above, arrived twelve minutes before the reception is due to start, and is wholly unsurprised to find Grantaire banging his head (softly) against the wall and audibly wondering to himself if it’s too late to fake his own death to cancel the opening. She tells him that if she can stand in front of both her parents, a judge and a jury and proclaim that she deserves custody of her younger siblings, he can handle a five hour gallery event, which he can totally leave early or hide in the bathroom for. Grantaire decides not to mention that he’s a dumb anxious bitch and Eponine was obviously going to win that court case. Instead, he takes a deep breath, gives Eponine a hug, and makes sure, for the six hundredth time, that everything is perfect.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac arrive separately. Grantaire, who is immersed in a discussion with a total stranger about _Monty Python’s Flying Circus_ , doesn’t notice. Courfeyrac arrives first, looking resplendent in a button up with popsicles - _popsicles_ -on it and a bowtie under a navy suit. He’s also wearing a hat, but he leaves the wide brimmed pork pie with his wool trench at the coat check. He brushes kisses across both Grantaire’s cheeks when they run into each other and presses a tiny paint set into his hands, beaming. They are disrupted, quite promptly, by an out of breath Bahorel, who has noticed the portrait of Jehan and has raced over to inquire as to Grantaire’s relationship with them. When Grantaire tells the tale of how he stumbled mindlessly into the flower shop while drunkenly trying to get to Franprix and had accidently spilled his entire life story to Jehan while clutching a bundle of irises and sobbing, Bahorel laughs his trademark laugh and proclaims how very Jehan that sounds. Grantaire, who is blown away by the sheer proximity of everyone in Paris, learns that Jehan is a close friend of JolyBossuetCombeferreCourfeyracFeuillyBahorelEnjolras’ and Grantaire, who in turn is a moderately close friend of Jehan’s, has several flashbacks to talking about his neighbors, the Perfect Couple, their Perfect Friends and their Perfect Friend, An Angel, to Jehan. He now realizes that Jehan wasn’t laughing because of Grantaire’s masterful storytelling. They were laughing because they knew exactly who Grantaire was talking about and fully neglected to mention anything. Grantaire is pulled away by artistic duties and is forced to watch Bahorel and Joly forcibly drag Courfeyrac into the back room and Grantaire will never forget the look of knowing Courfeyrac gives him when he exits.

“Have you seen it?” Courfeyrac askes, thirty minutes later, clasping both Enjolras’ hands in his. He looks like he’s seen an incredibly hot ghost, surprised in the best way. Grantaire knows exactly what he’s talking about, brain flashing to the tangible evidence of his weird Enjolrisian devotion hanging alone in the backroom, spotlit. Enjolras doesn’t react, barely even flinching.  
“I just got here.” He answers calmly, pulling his hands out of Courfeyrac’s to check his phone and Grantaire can’t help but notice the collection of messages ranging from “where the hell are you? Get here now it’s so urgent” (Joly) to “WHTA THE ACTISL FICK IS HAPPENIN HRRE?!?!?!” (Bossuet) to “i can’t wait to see ur face ur gunna fckn die” (Bahorel) and Grantaire is both upset and relieved no one just texted him a photo of it. Enjolras flashes his phone to Courfeyrac, who beams and shoves him to Grantaire.  
“Go on, then. Get to it!” He disappears around the wall back to the open bar, the opposite direction of Combeferre, blazer flipping behind him. Enjolras stares at Grantaire expectantly, thus forcing him to swallow the plum-sized spheroid of anxiety lodged in his throat and guide Enjolras carefully through the exhibit. Apparently someone had already texted about their mutual friend, so he only nods expectantly at the portrait of Jehan. He offers loose compliments, little things about shading and color choice that leave Grantaire a bit too red in the face. After what feels like forever for both of them, eager for the main event, they manage to work their way to the wall that blocks _Spellbound_ from the rest of the gallery.  
“Is this-” Grantaire cuts Enjolras off with a nod, knowing that Enjolras is smart enough to have put together the pieces that this painting could only ever be of him. Enjolras nods back and steps around the wall, coming the face to face with himself spread across a canvas. He stands, on the canvas, in the same red jacket he wore the first night at Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s, his right arm raised up to the ceiling. There’s a trail of gold leaf winding around his left leg, up around his torso and right arm to spread out from his fingertips across the top of the canvas. Enjolras stares at it, mouth partially open. Grantaire’s gotten enough congratulations on the piece tonight that he, to a degree, understands this reaction. Enjolras, enraptured, looks like he wants to reach out and touch. His face in the painting is soft, calm, almost bashful, the look Grantaire has admired when it gets flashed at Courfeyrac or Feuilly. Enjolras, after an eternity, turns back to Grantaire.  
“This can’t really be how you see me. You’re so argumentative, all the time, and this painting looks like... You make me look like...” Enjolras stops, unable to help looking over his shoulder again. Grantaire shrugs. He doesn’t know how to express that this, this gold flaked delineation, is exactly how he sees Enjolras. Dulcet and clement with those he loves, but capable of such fire, such magic, that the world can’t help but stop, take a second, absorb his light and hold it close.  
“I think you’re more beautiful than anything else I’ve ever seen.” Grantaire finally replies, incredulous at his own ability to retain eye contact with Enjolras whilst saying that. Enjolras huffs out a quiet laugh, carefully taking both Grantaire’s hand in his and really, truly smiling at him.  
“I think we’d better go to dinner after this.”

Of course, three perfect weeks later, Combeferre and Courfeyrac break up two days before their anniversary party. No one actually needs to tell Grantaire they’ve broken up, because he voyeuristically watches the entire thing out his peephole. He can hear them yelling and when he looks out, Courfeyrac is standing in the hallway with a Saint Laurent luggage set that costs more than Grantaire’s entire soul and Combeferre is yelling at him to go, just go and slamming the door and Courfeyrac is storming towards the stairs, duffle bag over his shoulder and a livid look on his face. Grantaire doesn’t move away from the door until he watches Combeferre storm out twenty minutes later, lab coat on and medical bag under his arm. Grantaire slides down the wall, trying to quell the rising panic in his chest. His hands are shaking and he can’t shake the dread. This last week with Enjolras has been wonderful. He’d cleaned his entire apartment and they’d cuddled and kissed and debated and made out and there may or may not have blowjobs and he’d never been happier. But there, sitting on the floor of his entryway, Grantaire wonders. If his Perfect Couple, comprised of the two steadiest, most put together people he has ever met, the closest thing he has ever seen to anyone being soulmates, can have an explosive breakup in the hallway, how the hell is Grantaire, A Human Disaster, supposed to be able to stay with Enjolras, Also A Human Disaster?

Strangely enough, no one tells Grantaire the anniversary party has been cancelled. So, he finds himself standing outside their door, holding a bottle of expensive and not cheap wine in one hand, and Enjolras’ hand in the other. Combeferre answers the door alone, smiling serenely at the pair and ushering them into the living room. Cheek kisses are passed around and the bottle of wine is added to the collection of alcohol on the side table. He sits down on the couch with Enjolras, catching up with their friends. Joly tells a few stories from the hospital, which Combeferre counters with increasingly gory and disgusting tales from the emergency room. Bahorel talks vaguely about one of his cases to Bossuet, who listens intently and references an older case of his own and Feuilly, as usual, mentions nothing about his work and Grantaire is left again to wonder what the hell he does. Feuilly’s dressed in what looks like head to toe Façonnable, so he obviously does something worthwhile.

Grantaire sits with Enjolras, whispering softly to each other. Enjolras is playing with Grantaire’s fingers and picking at the purple paint on the back of his hand. Combeferre stands up suddenly, during a lull in the surrounding conversations, and clears his throat.  
“I know how odd it is that Courfeyrac isn’t here, considering that he usually proclaims this party to be the highlight of his year.” There’s smattering of laughter across the room, like everyone had been thinking just that. Which, of course, they had been.  
“This party is one of his greatest joys, which is why we’re all here, even though he isn’t. It’s what he wanted.” Grantaire furrows his eyebrows. He hasn’t had a major breakup in almost a decade, but even he’s pretty sure it’s against protocol to talk about your ex as if they’re dead. He looks around the room, blinking in surprise at the smiles of those around him. Grantaire leans over to Enjolras, floored at the emotional insensitivity of the room.  
“What the fuck is going on here?” He whispers. Enjolras stares at him with unmitigated surprise, but shakes his head and returns to paying attention to Combeferre’s speech.  
“It’s pretty well known that I always knew I’d spend my entire life with Courfeyrac. From a young age, it had always been the two of us. And Enjolras, of course, but in a very different way. Even Enjolras, blind to love as he was, knew that Courfeyrac is my soulmate. He completes me. Always, he has been my guide, my shining light. In loss, in pain, in misery, in medical school.” There’s another round of chuckling, and Joly leans against Bossuet, whispering something in his ear that makes them both beam at each other.  
“I always knew it was only Courfeyrac. I’d just like to raise a glass to him, even though he isn’t here. Courf, you’re the love and light of my life. Thank you for allowing me another year by your side. I treasure every second with you, and I’m so thankful to be able to say I’m completely and utterly yours.” Combeferre raises his crystal glass of whiskey, and the rest of the group follows suit, mumbling “Courfeyrac” under their breaths. As they drink, Grantaire leans over again to Enjolras.  
“I’m so confused. Didn’t they break up?” As Enjolras starts choking/coughing, a voice rings from the doorway, startling everyone.  
“Do you really mean all that?” All heads snap, shocked to see Courfeyrac (and his Saint Laurent luggage set) staring at Combeferre with wide eyes. Combeferre nods. Courfeyrac laughs joyously and flings himself across the room and against Combeferre, who stumbles back with Courfeyrac in his arms.  
“Why the fuck did you think they broke up?” Enjolras hisses, coughing fit having subsided. Grantaire turns to him, trying to avoid looking at Combeferre and Courfeyrac making out in the center of the room.  
“I saw them argue! And Courfeyrac left! With a suitcase!” Grantaire hisses right back. Enjolras, vexed, motions to the couple.  
“They’re married! Today is their 25th anniversary! Of course they aren’t broken up,” He whispers urgently. “Courf is an international finance attorney, he travels all the time! They were upset with each other because Courfeyrac had to travel to Lithuania for a case and he'd be gone for their anniversary.” Grantaire stares at Enjolras in surprise. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have moved on to staring at one another in adoration as Combeferre pushes a few curls off Courfeyrac’s forehead.  
“I thought you would be gone until next week.” He says softly. Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, looking at Combeferre as if he’d suggested they exclusively shop at maternity stores from this point on.  
“You didn’t really think I’d miss my favorite day of the year, did you?” He retaliates, kissing Combeferre again. Grantaire points at them discreetly.  
“They don’t wear rings! How would I know they were married!?” He mumbles to Enjolras, waving one hand for good measure. Enjolras fixes him a firm stare, completely unimpressed by Grantaire mounting confusion.  
“Combeferre’s a trauma surgeon, he’d have to take it off all the time anyway. And Courfeyrac fiddles too much. By the time they decided they didn’t need rings, Courfeyrac had already lost three.” Grantaire stares at the couple open mouthed, watching them whisper to each other and sway, like they were dancing to no music at all (in his head, Grantaire can’t help but picture them sweeping around their kitchen in their pajamas, arms around each other and laughing.)  
“They’ve been together for twenty-five years?” He asked faintly. Enjolras nods.  
“When we were seven, Courfeyrac told Combeferre that they were married, and it stuck. Every time they went anywhere together, it was a date. Even when they learned what it meant, they kept it up. I don’t think their parents knew how serious they were until they got married three months after Courfeyrac turned 18. That was 14 years ago, but they’ve always counted their anniversary as that day when they were seven.” Enjolras explains. Grantaire’s mouth is hanging open, and he stares at the couple in a new light. Yeah, they were Perfect before, but now, with the whole childhood sweethearts backstory, Grantaire feels like he’s going to cry. They’re More Perfect. And, apparently, not actually broken up. Thank God. 

The rest of the party goes off without a hitch. Courfeyrac spends all of it tucked comfortably under Combeferre’s arm and Enjolras, despite their hushed discussion earlier, still has his fingers tight around Grantaire’s, leading Grantaire to assume that he is also not broken up. Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, and Bahorel all leave at the same time with thinly veiled sex jokes, causing Combeferre to send a very pointed “please get out so I can get anniversary laid” look to Enjolras. Enjolras, who has received this look approximately 16 times in his life, stands and briskly drags Grantaire out after a very rushed goodbye. They stand in Grantaire’s living room a few minutes later, staring at each other. Grantaire’s apartment smells like an $85 Diptyque candle and for a moment Grantaire wonders if the fire in Enjolras’ eyes is what lit it.  
“Why did you care so much that Combeferre and Courfeyrac might have broken up?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire’s shoulders sag. This was exactly what he had not wanted. He wonders about the likelihood of Eponine having an emergency at this exact moment and rescuing him. He sighs, swallows down his desire to escape, and sits on the couch. Enjolras settles beside him, a hand on Grantaire’s thigh  
“I guess it just made me sad. I mean, when you see them from afar, they’re the most perfect couple ever,” Enjolras smiles, nodding affectionately. “They made me reconsider my views on love, because how I could proclaim that love didn’t exist when they lived across the hall from me? And then I met you because of them, and I got it. I understood, because you make me so happy and you inspire me and I...” Grantaire trails off, staring at his own shaking hands.  
“And Christ, Enjolras, I just really love you. So when they “broke up,” it just made me wonder how someone like me, someone damaged and hurt, could ever have any relationship like theirs.” He mumbled softly. Enjolras squeezes his thigh and stands up, slipping off his jacket and throwing it over the back of Grantaire’s couch.  
“I love you too. You help me work harder for what I believe in and fight for, and apparently, I’m much less awkward and stuck up since we got together.” Grantaire snorts. That was something he, too, had noticed (and discussed with almost every member of their friend group).  
“But maybe...” Enjolras fiddles with the hem of his shirt, smiling bashfully at Grantaire.  
“Maybe instead of romanticizing your friends relationship, you should forget about making us perfect and come romanticize me anyway.” Once the words are out of his mouth, Enjolras yanks off his striped tee shirt, flings it across the room and bolts into Grantaire’s bedroom. Grantaire stands, blows out the ridiculously overpriced candle, and struts towards the bedroom door, which has been slammed shut.

“Fuck,” He thinks, “He’s Perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This took me twelve years to finish. Please give me validation.  
> Maybe I'll write a follow up. Any ideas? It will also take 12 years.


End file.
